


The Braves

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen or Pre-Slash, Jean Innocent POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2226732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team work to prevent a terrorist incident</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Braves

“They’re definitely planning something for Saturday night.”

The suspect, Jonathan Atkins, was talking about a local far right group calling itself The Braves, known to the police for unruly behaviour on demonstrations, intimidation and vandalism. Atkins, cousin to one of the founders, was on the periphery of the group. He had spent part of the previous evening in the pub with them, a few hours before getting himself arrested.

Now he was negotiating to get his assault charge knocked down to a caution and the DCI from Counter Terrorism interviewing watched his performance with weary scepticism. The offence was the dispiritingly inevitable result of a pay day session at the Stags Head followed by a trip to Caesar’s nightclub and wouldn’t normally have warranted a senior officer’s attention.

“They won’t let me in on it because I’m not one of them, the dicks, but you can tell from the way they’re acting it’s something big.”

Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent watched through the interview room glass. Saturday was two days away and there was something about the story that rang true.

“I can get you in with them. I know where they’ll be drinking tonight.” Atkins cast an anxious glance at the Asian DCI across the table from him. “I’m not into any of that racial purity bollocks but they think I am, so I can get someone in as long as they look the part.”

Jean scanned the officers in her squad room. Who here looked the part? Who, more importantly, could play the part? She dismissed all the women and obviously non-Caucasian men, anyone without an English accent, anyone over the age of forty and anyone unlikely to be able to convincingly sustain an assumed identity. Of those remaining, the man bearing the most unfortunate resemblance to the Arian ideal was Detective Sergeant James Hathaway.

Currently between murders, Hathaway was helping Detective Inspector Lewis move into their newly assigned office. They were getting on well; inexplicably well. Jean had witnessed an almost immediate lift in Hathaway’s spirits since he had been accidentally teamed with Lewis on the day of the older man’s return to Oxford. This had sustained through some tough and complex cases and ought to be gratifying, considering what a square peg he had always been, and the extent to which he had baffled and infuriated DI Knox, his previous governor.

In turn, the empty, haunted look Robbie Lewis had worn when he first returned, which had made her want to send him far away again, had started to fade.

And it wasn’t that she was unhappy to see them forming into a solid, productive unit it was more a matter of knowing a potential challenge to her authority when she saw one. Even in that first case they had defended each other, challenged her decisions and Lewis, she was reasonably sure, had lied for Hathaway on one occasion. Divided loyalties undermined authority and if necessary, well, it was useful for sergeants to gain experience with as many different senior officers as possible when preparing for promotion.

“Get a grip, Jean,” she instructed herself. When your gift horse starts effortlessly solving obscure and improbable murders don’t ask to see its dental records.

“Robbie, if I can interrupt for a moment. My office, please.”

“Is he ready, ma’am?” Lewis asked when she explained the scenario. It was a fair question. Normally only experienced officers were considered for undercover assignments and then with a little more than five minutes preparation.

“He is highly intelligent and resourceful.”

“I’d noticed that.”

“He’s of appropriate rank, he fits the profile.”

“And you’ve not got a choice, have you?” Lewis said.

Jean suddenly understood why so many of the longstanding team members, both officers and civilians, were so happy to have Lewis back. It would be a good feeling to have this man on your side. 

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t have a choice. Though Hathaway, of course, does. He is free to refuse the assignment.”

“He won’t,” Lewis predicted grimly. “Who will he be working with?”

“The Met are sending up a specialist. She’s on her way now.”

The specialist had already warned against the plan, registered strong objections to it in fact. Undercover operations, she informed Jean, should have weeks of planning not hours and the officer concerned should be thoroughly and exhaustively prepared. He should be given time to become as familiar with his assumed identity as he was with his actual one. (Which, in Hathaway’s case, could take decades, Jean refrained from saying.) And what of the official documentation and internet profiles that had to be brought into being before a human could verifiably exist in the twenty first century? All of this was necessary to preserve both the operation and the officer’s wellbeing.

Irritated by the assumption none of this had occurred to her, Jean asked the Met specialist if she wanted to take responsibility when a nail bomb hit a mosque. 

***

Hathaway accepted the assignment with matter of fact acquiescence.

“I can give you a bit of time to think about it,” Jean said, though she couldn’t, not really. “You appreciate it will be more than ordinarily dangerous. Apart from within prearranged protocols you won’t be able to call on the support of colleagues while the operation is underway.”

Lewis pitched in at that point. Perhaps he thought this wasn’t a particularly persuasive argument to use with Hathaway, “You’re likely to find yourself unarmed among some dangerous people who don’t trust you.”

Hathaway turned to him and the conversation continued silently for a few moments. Then he said, “I understand. I think I can do it.” And thanked them for the opportunity. 

Lewis looked unhappy. He no doubt thought the whole thing was a terrible idea. He didn’t know her well enough to say so though, or perhaps did not want to undermine Hathaway in her presence. Instead he gave her seven minutes of advice on the protocols that should be put in place and the level and range of back up Hathaway should be provided with, which seemed to involve mobilising half the force. It was easily the longest speech Jean had ever heard him make.

She was impressed, to the point where she would have cancelled the annoying specialist had she not already been on the M40, and Hathaway stared at him in barely concealed amazement. It was partly the surprising extent of his knowledge and partly, she suspected having seen his file, no one had ever been this much bothered about his chances of surviving the weekend.

So after a crash course in undercover procedure and a lightening briefing Hathaway went to the pub with Jonathan Atkins. He assumed the identity of James Raleigh, a man overlooked for promotion in his teaching post due, he was convinced, to a left wing conspiracy.

His objective for the evening was to give the Braves the impression he believed in violent struggle and, as far as possible, gain their trust. Everything went smoothly. He was observed by a plain clothes officer while inside the pub and was reported to have left unaccompanied at closing time by the ‘eyes on’ the front entrance. He went back to James Raleigh’s flat where Lewis was waiting, ready to receive an update. When it had been established that no one was watching the flat, Lewis left and returned to the station to pass on Hathaway’s report.

“He agrees with Atkins, ma’am,” Lewis said. “The group seem to be anticipating something happening at the weekend. They didn’t speak about it directly, presumably because outsiders were present, but there was a high level of tension. The odd thing was, he didn’t get the sense they were all on board with the plan or even involved in it. He got the idea that a key person, the instigator, wasn’t there.”

“Any idea who this person is?”

“Not yet. He’s male; they talked about ‘he’ and ‘him’. And someone whose actions might be hard to predict, so probably a relative stranger.”

So that narrowed their suspects down to half the population. Perfect.

They spent the night matching Hathaway’s descriptions to the known members of the group and, as far as could be ascertained, there were no significant Braves unaccounted for. Counter Terrorism had also been looking in on their own ‘usual suspects’ and reported no activity of note.

There was a day left and they were no further forward. Jean wondered if she should call the whole thing off and arrest every last Brave under some subsidiary section of the Anti-Terrorism Act, one of the ‘looks like a wrong’un’ clauses. Beans were bound to be spilled under questioning.

She dismissed the idea at the first twitch of the duty solicitor’s nervous tic. There was nothing that could be described as reasonable suspicion, let alone evidence.

***

Hathaway obtained, through Atkins, an invite to another pub meeting on Friday night. Once again there were plain clothes officers inside and outside the pub. He was there until ten thirty when he left with one of the group; a tall, stocky, fair man promptly code-named Geronimo. They took Hathaway’s car and were followed by an unmarked police car. Which lost them in traffic on the Eastern Bypass. 

Jean was unimpressed at losing visual contact with Hathaway particularly when he failed to return to his flat but, in accordance with protocol, they maintained telephone contact with him. The calls were made and received by an officer posing as a disgruntled girlfriend. Their timing and script were prearranged and the message from Hathaway was that the situation was under control but he was not in a position to speak freely. However, after midnight, verbal contact was also lost. Hathaway made no further calls and did not answer his phone. 

The plain clothes officers who had been stationed at the pub were able to describe Geronimo. Some unsatisfactory photographs and CCTV were available. He did not fit the description of any of the core group of Braves and was unknown to Counter Terrorism. Hathaway had apparently found the person of concern to the rest of the group. And disappeared without a trace with him.

***

On Saturday, the anticipated day of the major incident, there was no further communication with Hathaway, no trace of Geronimo and examination of CCTV had so far failed to deliver any leads on Hathaway’s car.

Plain clothes officers kept watch on the Braves. They appeared to be going about their normal weekend business; lawns were mowed, supermarkets were visited, copies of the Daily Mail were purchased. But they did not seem to be at ease. They spent hours on the phone, presumably to each other and sat in pubs, together or apart, looking for news updates on their phones and on TV screens. 

Equally concerning was the continued silence from Hathaway. An operation to prevent a terrorist attack extended its remit to finding a missing officer. The Chief Constable phoned, the Assistant Chief Constable sat in Jean’s office and made unhelpful interventions, the officer who had posed as Hathaway’s girlfriend for phone calls could not be persuaded to leave her desk and Inspector Lewis became increasingly and impressively stone-faced.

When the ACC suggested Jean had acted improperly by giving the assignment to Hathaway without sufficient preparation Lewis said, “He’s an exceptional officer, sir. If anyone can do this, he can.” And then he walked out.

An hour passed and then another before Lewis returned. He came back with an address in Cowley and the name of a man fitting Geronimo’s description. Aiden King was known to Greater Manchester police in connection with right wing extremism, violence and, most worryingly, explosives.

Lewis did not say how he had come by the information. Though she noticed Jonathan Atkins looking uncharacteristically subdued when she saw him next.

Lewis took two plain clothes officers and left. Jean received a call half an hour later. Hathaway had been located at King’s house. His car was outside and he had been spotted through a gap in the drawn curtains of the front room, apparently well. The information was passed to the Incident Room and Jean heard a cheer go up. King was also briefly spotted, pacing the room and ranting. Lewis described his behaviour as agitated. 

She went to the scene bringing backup. Inspector Lewis supervised the quiet evacuation of all houses in the street and the creation of a wide cordon. There were to be no marked police cars within sight of the house, no flashing blue lights, no uniformed officers, and definitely no circling helicopters. There would be nothing done to alarm the disturbed man inside the house and endanger DS Hathaway. 

When the public were safely drinking tea in a local school hall the senior officers present discussed the next steps.

“We’ve given him a job to do,” Lewis finally, reluctantly said. “We should let him finish it.

One more hour passed while they waited. Hathaway remained deliberately positioned in the one seat in the room that allowed him to be seen from outside. Lewis, Jean beside him, watched from his car. Everyone else stayed clear so that King, should he glance out, would not notice anything amiss. Jean noted Lewis’ stillness, the completeness of his concentration on the house and its occupants. Hathaway too, seemed to possess unwavering focus; listening to King talk, occasionally nodding or contributing a question or comment. Then suddenly he was on his feet.

“He’s up,” Lewis said. 

“Five minutes,” she said. He nodded and checked his watch.

After four long minutes when Hathaway did not return to his seat Lewis’ phone buzzed. He switched to speaker. 

“Are you here, sir?” Hathaway asked.

“Yes, sergeant. What’s your status?”

“The scene is secure. I’m coming to the door.”

King was unconscious on the floor of his living room, a knife kicked out of reach. The sofa was pushed aside and the floorboards were up revealing enough explosives to make a significant hole in Oxford. 

King was taken away and Hathaway, though dazed and tired, claimed to be unhurt. He briefed Jean, Lewis and the DCI from Counter Terrorism. King had not been a Brave, he said. He had been unknown to them until three weeks ago when he made contact and tried to persuade them to take part in the bombing of a pub in the centre of Oxford on R&B night. The group were spooked by him, they had never considered this type of violent action. They feared his intensity and Hathaway considered they were right to. 

“He took an interest in me in the pub last night and I could see there was something wrong with him. I let him know I was interested in direct action and he brought me here. He was looking for someone to trust and someone to help with the bomb. It didn’t take much for him to start telling me his plans, I got the whole story over the course of the night. He wouldn’t tell me where he was keeping the explosives though or if anyone else was involved. That’s what I was holding out for.”

“But why didn’t you keep in touch,” Jean asked. “Why didn’t you follow protocol?” 

“The calls upset him,” Hathaway said. “They made him suspicious so I switched the phone off. I’m sorry, I can imagine you were worried.” Jean rolled her eyes at the understatement. “I hope I didn’t -, I mean I understand it’s usual for the operation to take precedence over protocol.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Trust Hathaway to have read the small print.

“So you were here all night?” Lewis asked.

Hathaway blinked, “Weren’t you?”

“We lost you for a moment there,” Lewis told him. “I’m sorry to say.”

Hathaway absorbed this piece of new information. “Inspector Lewis found you,” Jean said softly and his world seemed to right itself.

“We were here all night,” Hathaway confirmed. “King didn’t sleep. He was hyper, couldn’t stay still, he was working himself up. I think he was doing some kind of speed, he kept swallowing tablets. You’ll find a paper wrap in his pocket. And then, just now, he finally showed me the explosives and told me exactly what he was planning, what he wanted me to do.”

“And accomplices?”

“He started by trying to convince me he was mobilising some kind of army but eventually it became clear he was working alone. It was an issue for him, he felt betrayed, so I don’t believe we should be looking for anyone else. Apart from maybe arresting the rest of the group for keeping quiet. Anyway, I pushed him on accomplices once he’d shown me this stuff and he suddenly stopped trusting me and tried to attack me. Pulled a knife I didn’t know he had.” Hathaway shook his head, apparently at his own carelessness. “He was so wound up, it was only a matter of time. He accused me of being a spy. Fair enough, I suppose.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, scrubbing his hand across them as if the long night was catching up with him. Lewis looked carefully at him and then pulled back the denim jacket he was wearing. There was a sizeable and spreading blood stain beneath his ribs, partially camouflaged by the dark colour of his sweatshirt. Hathaway looked surprised to see it there.

“Just a scratch. I didn’t even notice it.” That turned out to be the adrenaline talking.

“Well, it’s probably a knife wound, so get it seen to,” Jean instructed. “And when you’re up to it, come back to the station for a proper debrief. Good work, sergeant. Very impressive. You too, inspector.”

The DCI went off to find out what had become of bomb disposal and Jean stepped out to make a concise and yet civil call to the ACC. As she waited for him to answer she glanced back. Hathaway had turned to Lewis and seemed, head bowed, to be closing the distance between them without actually touching him.

“It’s over, James,” Lewis said in answer to an unasked question and Jean watched as Hathaway crumpled slowly into Lewis’ arms. She abandoned her call and together they lowered him to the floor.

He regained consciousness after a few moments and in the end was treated with stitches and for mild shock. The ambulance on standby had left with King and, while they waited for another, Lewis compressed the wound.

“Where do you think you’re going, sergeant?” Lewis asked as Hathaway struggled to sit up, not yet persuaded the battle was fought and won. 

Lewis wrapped an arm around his shoulders to support him, speaking quietly to him, enclosing him in the loose circle of his arms until he did finally seem to accept his task was complete and he could stand down, his head falling against Lewis’ shoulder.

She realised then, it did not matter what future, theoretical objections she might have to this partnership, what pressures it might have to endure or how valuable an experience working with another DI might be, there would be no getting between these two.

 

End

 

August 2014


End file.
